


called your name til the fever broke

by thischarmingand (electricchicken)



Category: Tanis (Podcast)
Genre: pre Geoff/Nic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 09:59:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6951838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricchicken/pseuds/thischarmingand
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nic tells most of the truth about what happens after he leaves the cabin.</p><p>a somewhat shippy episode tag for <i>Tanis</i> 1x12</p>
            </blockquote>





	called your name til the fever broke

**Author's Note:**

> blame this fic on [galacticdrift's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ancalime/pseuds/galacticdrift) [Geoff/Nic 8tracks mix.](8tracks.com/galacticdrift/waiting-for-the-first-day-you-say-yes) lord knows I do.
> 
> tiny transcription at the top courtesy of [these invaluable transcripts.](http://tanistranscripts.weebly.com/)

> _"I remember them pulling me out, walking into the light. It was really bright outside, I had to cover my eyes. There were a lot of people, I remember. I was interviewed by the police there on the site, and for hours later at the station. It felt like days. And then I went home."_

Nic tells most of the truth about what happens after he leaves the cabin.

He can’t judge how long they hold him for. Long enough for a paramedic at the scene to wrap a blanket around his shoulders like they do on TV and ask him if he knows what day it is (wrong), who the president is (right) and what year it is (right again, even as he’d expected wrong). Long enough for a cup of stereotypically bad coffee at cop shop that hits his empty stomach like a punch, and rounds of questioning that doesn’t feel as thorough as those first three fired off by the EMT. Long enough that Nic’s coffee goes cold and his head won’t stay up without his hand under his chin to support it.

It’s been either three hours or however many days when Terry and Paul show up with PNWS’s lawyer and a sandwich from the 7-11 down the block. Turkey, swiss and soft, wilted lettuce. Nic misses a lot of what comes next, save for the sandwich. Someone says ‘shock’ and someone else says ‘suspicious’ and either the first person or someone else entirely says ‘exhausted’ and that, at least, sounds right.

Amazingly, when he asks again, they let him go home. Paul drops him in the parking lot, next to the car he’d left hours away, hands him his keys and threatens to come inside until he promises to get some sleep.

The apartment’s dark, quiet, when he lets himself in. Place already has that empty smell. Stale air, and a single black banana rotting on the kitchen counter. The dog’s at Alex’s, Paul had said that too — or maybe Terry. Maybe the lawyer, even. Names don’t mean much yet.

Nic blinks and comes back to himself, swaying sideways, hands on the edge of the counter, sweet sickly smell of rotting fruit in his nose.

The banana goes in the trash. Nic goes for the shower. Five days in the woods (so they tell him) and he’s gone nose-blind, but the skin around his nails is crusted with dirt and blood (whose?) He turns the water hotter than he likes, lets his head rest against the tile while the spray beats across his back.

When he closes his eyes Tara Reynolds is holding her arm out for him to eat. Nic shudders, blinks them open and the water pounding down on him is lukewarm, edging closer to cold. Blood’s still under his nails when he lifts them to check, and the soap’s still dry on the ledge at the back of the tub.

They pulled him out of the cabin around 10 a.m. (Nic gets the time later, from the police reports MK drops in his inbox unasked and unpaid for.) When he thinks to look next the sun is still in the sky, which would mean more if he’d ever been good at telling the time from things like that. The clock on the microwave’s at 00:00, alarm in the bedroom flashing the same. Power must have gone out while he was away. His phone might still be in the woods.

Nic’s not proud of how long it take to remember laptops have clocks. 

The time turns out to be a little after8 p.m. His mailbox is showing a few more than 300 emails. Of the first 10 he sees when he opens the program, at least four are from MK and at least two he wouldn’t want to read out loud on the podcast. Another is just a line of middle finger emojis.

Blink, and — it’s not that he misses time so much as it smears, soft around the edges as it happens and barely a blur once it’s passed. He reads subject lines and rereads them. MK might be pleased to know how many times he’s gone over her instructions for how to best stick his mysteries up his own ass.

The laptop pings. New message. His internet bill’s due and the apartment’s dark around him, only the glow of the screen for light.

…

Geoff Van Sant’s hair looks like he just woke up. Nic forgot to look at the clock in the car before turning off the engine, can’t guess if he might have. The boxers and bathrobe combo makes more of a case, though, now that he’s looking.

“Nic?”

He doesn’t get a chance to answer that before Geoff’s shoved the screen door wide and pulled him in for a back-pounding, rib-crushing bear hug. For a skinny guy, he’s strong. Nic focuses on the slight burning sensation in his lungs from being squeezed too small to expand properly, ignores the looming existential crisis of not being fully sure how to answer to his own name.

“What the hell man? What happened to you?” Geoff eases up, but doesn’t go far. The robe’s hanging open, chest bare to the night air. There’s more muscle and less jutting rib cage there than Nic thinks he’d expected. “Your friend Alex called a few days ago looking for you. When’d you get back?”

“I guess, today? Or maybe yesterday now.” He should’ve looked at the time. Instead, he raises the box that’s been dangling from his fingertips. “Uh, I brought beer?”

“You drove up here?” Geoff’s a good dude. Once he realizes what kind of face he’s making, his expression smoothes out pretty quickly. He takes the beer, too, with slow, measured movements, like he’s not sure Nic’s going to let go. “Come inside, okay?”

The house is dark, except for a light coming from down the hall. Must be the bedroom. “Sorry if I woke you up.”

“It’s cool, don’t worry.” Geoff had gone into the house first, but he’s ended up behind him somehow, steering Nic away from the living room towards the kitchen. The overhead light makes his eyes water. “Sit down. When’s the last time you ate something?”

Nic’s trying to do the math in his head when Geoff says, “I’m gonna make you a sandwich, okay? Grilled cheese?”

There’s a clock on the microwave. Nic squints at the numbers, rubs his eyes when that doesn’t help. “Is your clock—”

“Military time,” Geoff pokes his head out of the fridge, gives him the edge of a grin. “Old habits. You like fontina?”

“I guess?” He’s pretty sure he knows how to read a 24-hour clock. Subtract 12 and — fuck, hope the numbers don’t slip through your fingers when you try to grab onto them. Geoff leans over his shoulder and Nic startles.

“I got you a cold one.” The beer can hits the table just off beat of Geoff’s hand on his shoulder, half friendly pat, half grip and shake. He’s got strong hands. Nic’s not sure whether he’s leaning into it, or Geoff’s taking some of his weight for him all on his own. “Seems like you need it.”

“You could say that, yeah.”

Time’s still not really working, so Nic isn’t sure if he’s right in thinking Geoff stays there with his hand on his shoulder for kind of a while. “So, where’ve you been, buddy? Alex said something about you going camping?”

“Camping,” Nic repeats and it’s like he’s watching them talk from the ceiling, weightless, his own voice bouncing off the walls and back to him. “That’s, yeah, that’s one way of putting it.”

“Hey,” Geoff shakes his shoulder with more intent, and Nic wishes he could say he didn’t jump again. “I’m gonna start that sandwich. You can tell me as much as you want. Or not, man. It’s fine.”

“It’s… kind of a blur,” he pops the top on the beer, takes a sip he doesn’t taste. “I had a notebook. The Runner said the voice recorder would confuse things.”

“The who what?”

“Right, right.” He tries to think back, past buried phones and the bridge and that arm, held up for him to taste. The thread’s there, he can see it. Sort of. There was a dog, but not his dog. She’d gone out to walk it. Or. Fuck. “Maybe we should just say I had a weird couple of days.”

There’s a sizzling sound as Geoff settles a sandwich into a pan. “I’m getting that.”

“I’ll tell you about it, I will, but not right now, okay?” Another sip he doesn’t taste. At least this one seems to wet his throat. “Kinda makes my head hurt.”

“Not a big deal, man. Seriously.” He looks up a and Geoff’s watching him carefully. There’s a kitchen towel slung over one shoulder. The robe’s still hanging open. He’d mentioned having a tattoo somewhere, hadn’t he? Nic thinks he remembers that. Wherever it is, it’s on real estate that’s still covered. “You okay though? For real?”

“Yeah.” He looks away. “I think so. Probably.”

…

Geoff’s sandwich making skills are above par, but his couch kinda sucks. Nic’s pretty sure it shouldn’t be this obvious, after days of sleeping on the ground or — or wherever, after that, but the ridges of the cushions dig in, and the same settled ass imprints that make great lounging aren’t doing much for his back.

“You could’ve let me put down a blanket first.” Geoff leans over the arm of the couch, looking at him upsidedown over a stack of bedding. “Or take the bed. Not a problem.”

“I’m not going to sleep that much anyway.” He reaches over his head to take the pillow. Not really an improvement.

“We don’t have to call it a night yet.” Geoff somehow makes sitting on the arm of the couch look casual and comfortable. Or maybe it’s just the lure of a soft surface. His head tilts towards the couch back as he’s talking, eyelids starting to droop, like he might nod off right there. “You wanna watch some TV or something?”

“Go to bed, man.” He makes a show of settling in, wriggling himself a Nic-shaped dent in the cushions if nothing else. “You look like you’re gonna drop.”

“Big words, coming from you.” Geoff reaches down, gives Nic’s shoulder an absent squeeze. “Need me to tuck you in?”

“Just go to sleep.”

“Yeah, yeah.” It shouldn’t even be surprising when he does the opposite, flicking the blanket open and letting it settle over Nic’s body. He’d never realized sarcastic tuck-ins were a thing, but Geoff tugs the edge of the covers just so under his chin with a hint of a shit-eating grin. “Night, buddy.”

“Thanks.” Nic’s brain is still scrambled six ways to Sunday. That’s probably the only reason he finds himself expecting a kiss on the forehead.

“Any time,” Geoff says.

 


End file.
